


Fix You

by OctoberSkies



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, M/M, One Shot, Rite of Tranquility, Tranquil Dorian, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-04
Updated: 2016-09-04
Packaged: 2018-08-12 23:39:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7953610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OctoberSkies/pseuds/OctoberSkies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An older piece I recently stumbled on, set in an AU where Varlen Lavellan faces a newly tranquil Dorian for the first time. I figured I would post it up here before I lost track of it again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fix You

Everything felt cold. Numb. Absent.

 _Burning_.

Turning the doorknob was harder than anything Varlen had ever done. Anything he had endured. Seen. _Felt_.

And it was all about to become so much worse.

The door creaked open slowly, inch by inch, as though moving in a dream-like languor. Varlen’s heart beat against his ribcage, but there was an iron band around it, squeezing like a vice, refusing to let go. He wanted to be sick. He wanted to turn and run back the way he came. 

But he couldn’t. Not now. _Not when_ …

The room was dim, lit only by a few sparse candles that were already burning low, the wax pooling unattended at their bases. Stepping into the space took all of the willpower Varlen possessed, and the door closed behind him with an unassuming click. He glanced around. The place was tidy to a fault. Everything had been put in its place, and remained there.

_Everything._

“May I be of assistance?”

Varlen closed his eyes, not wanting to look at the figure that slowly rose from a lone chair in the corner. His pale grey robes rustled gently. Placidly. _He couldn’t_. It was already so… so _wrong_. Everything was wrong.

“I…” Varlen began to speak, but his voice choked itself into silence. _Creators - don’t cry_. Not now. Not yet. _Just wait_. “… I came to see you, Dorian. That’s all.”

Varlen opened his eyes. He wished he hadn’t.

Dorian watched him, those familiar grey eyes just… _lacking._ The spark that used to dance behind them, evidence of the inner machinations of a brilliant mind, was dull. Snuffed out like the candle on the windowsill, which had reached the end of its wick and had given up in a huff of meager smoke. Even his steps were flat, revealing no trace of his usual sauntering gait. Each movement was simply a means to an end; a way to get from one place to another. He used to carry himself with such pride - such confidence - even when he was entirely alone. Now, Varlen doubted he even remembered what such a thing felt like.

“I knew you would.” A phrase that would have once been uttered with affection was devoid of any emotion. It was clinical. Matter-of-fact. Dorian knew it to be so, and so it was. Varlen wanted to scream. To shake him by the shoulders and snap him out of it. For it all to be a terrible joke. He would give up anything he had to have Dorian suddenly smirk, declare _I got you, didn’t I, amatus?_ and take the subsequent punch to the face with his usual dramatic indignation. He would give _anything_ for that.

_Anything but this._

“… _Why_?” Varlen knew the question was stupid. Utterly ridiculous. But he didn’t know what else to say. His mouth was numb. “Why did they do it?”

“I threatened the stability of the Magisterium.” Dorian informed him, and Varlen felt his stomach churn. “I was too unpredictable. A danger to myself and those around me. Now I am not. It is for the best.”

“ _W-What?_ ” Varlen stepped back. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “There is nothing about this that is _for the best_ , Dorian! How can you not see that!?”

“You will come to understand.” Dorian replied patiently, and that alone made Varlen want to be sick. Dorian Pavus – the man with more vision and more passion than anyone he had _ever_ met – had been reduced to an emotionless shell, parroting whatever rhetoric the magisterium had fed him to justify their inhumanity. “I am now in control of myself. All is as it should be.”

Fists clenching, Varlen could barely see. His vision was blurring dangerously, but he was not sure if it was from unbridled rage, or the hot tears that were already streaming down his face. Turning, Varlen realised heartbreakingly that he couldn’t even look at Dorian. His chest ached, and it was like the loss of his clan all over again. 

But they were gone. 

Dorian was still standing _right there_ , taunting him. Meters away, yet completely out of reach. Reminding him of what he once had. Of who his lover once was. Of all the things he could have been. _Creators, why?_

_Why him?_

“You are upset.” Dorian noted.

“Of course I am!” Varlen couldn’t help it. He knew he shouldn’t snap at him. It wasn’t… _It wasn’t his fault_. “You’re… you’re not who you used to be.”

“No, I am not. I have been fixed—”

“—there was _nothing wrong with you!!!_ ” Varlen could barely speak through the sobs that wracked his chest, and he broke off, bringing a hand to his mouth, choking on his words with a shattering gasp. This was not _fixing_. Dorian had his faults, but every single one of them had been what made him perfect. Even that infuriating way he’d smirk when an errant remark of his made Varlen’s cheeks go bright red in the middle of a crowd of nobles. Or the slight furrow of his brow as he read too late into the night, neglecting to light more candles and straining his eyes in the dark, too absorbed to care. Or the way he amorously drew his bottom lip between his teeth when he gazed upon Varlen’s form, waiting for him on the bed, languid and content as they joined and moved as one upon the sheets. 

They both had their problems. Their drawbacks. _Their faults_. But Dorian had always been so indescribably beautiful because of them. He had been real. Tangible. _Alive._

“It would be best if you sat down.”

How helpful. _How convenient_. He was the perfect servant, faultless to a fault. Varlen ignored him, no longer caring to hide the fact that he was trembling from head to toe. He was not here to be waited on by the man he loved.

Yes, _loved_.

For everything that had happened, Varlen still loved him. Nothing would change that. Varlen moved back to the door, consciously making the effort to measure his steps. Not to give in and run, fleeing for the empty space of the corridor.

“… You want to be fixed?” Varlen whispered, his hand closing once again around the brass handle of the door. He shook like a man who had witnessed death. _Worse_. “Fine. Then _I’ll_ fix you. I’ll… I’ll find a way.”

“It is not necessary. I am already fixed. I am content.”

Varlen clenched his teeth and shook his head, throwing the door open with one harsh move, all the fury of his being manifesting in the thunderous crash of the wood as it slammed against the wall. His footsteps rang, echoing off the stone hall, the torchlight throwing his shadow behind him like a cloak. He was vaguely aware of the soft sound of the door being closed behind him, and he clenched his fists, tasting the salt of his tears on his lips.

There had to be a way. _There must be_. Varlen would free him of the Magisterium’s shackles. He would find a way bring him back, even if it took him until his last breath. He would shake Dorian’s  _damned Maker_  by the ankles until he gave him the answer if he had to. He would do _anything_.

_He had to._


End file.
